The very fact that you read up on books here and on The Inside Flap says to me that you, the reader, are discerning in your tastes. Without tooting any unnecessary horns, I think it's safe to say that the contributors to the blog (myself included) know a bit about fantastic reads. In this spirit of congratulations all around on taste and meritorious reading, I'd like to ask a question…How strange are you willing to get?
Jack O'Connell seems to ask this question at the close of nearly every chapter of The Resurrectionist; and it's not altogether unlikely that you'll ask yourself that same question while reading the book.
I hope you're willing to get so strange that a troupe of alternate reality circus freaks led by a chicken boy doesn't throw you off the exploration of what might be a window into the collective unconscious.
I hope you're willing to get so strange that the hard-riding biker gang holed up in an abandoned prosthetics factory and dealing in human bodily fluids doesn't blind you to the thoughtful meditation about fatherhood and family.
I hope you're willing to get so strange that an egomaniacal neurosurgeon and his prized salamander don't obscure the questions raised about ethics and motivation in medicine.
I hope you're willing to get so strange that you can recognize how a story within the story has the power to teach a lesson about happiness and the dangers of seeking it from a storyteller who owes you nothing.
Most of all, I hope you're willing to get so strange that all of the bells, whistles, oddities and weirdos populating The Resurrectionist serve not to distract, but steer you right to the ultimate point; forgiveness is transformative.
If the sort of insanity cited above doesn't faze you, enjoy. If it does, make the leap. You know what they say; The first three hundred four pages are the strangest.
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